Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Goldfinch battalions | Desperately | fine lines | Refined | almost to | nullity | Supplies of | velvet and crimson, junipers, materialism | growing thin | Booking right out | of epiphany | It all made sense, but | you couldn’t stay there | Hotels and moments | Stayed ‘Lost’ in the | Lost & Found | Shadows of text throw | trees of light | No | point | of | rest | Not here | Not there | When you’ve found what you’re looking for | what will you | find next?

Does that | make sense? || Over, on the other | side of the poem | in the corner with the | stem irises in an old | milk jug of | earthenware || Lips flit and | have their insect | life | the heart | clamours for fuel || Battle | insists on us | This war | requires our presence || For love, too, RSVP || What do you want next? | And what | did you find last? And | do you think it will | still be here | if you | come back for it?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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Ghost state | Putting out a dish of milk | for those old | strays, their | beautiful musculature | eyes clearer than | plain blue skies in August | their tears | always as if the first tears | so | pure || Late-night matinees | of the silver screen | flicker and dart | of the black and white | deceased | comedians drawn back | to their custard pies | or Spitfires and Stukas | held together by light | sparrows and fifties’ vowels | come to a half doze and Samsung || No one | to understand | these letters, now | Memory | on the move | buffalo selves | long into their | migration | Unfashionable | books | line the shelves | a spirit decor | rendered obsolete by | irony and “the new idea” | a world of aunts | and aspidistras and | antimacassars | And each instant | a vital | summit of particles | convened and adjourned | no minutes taken | no method of record || Bell Bottom Blues | and butterfly | images of the lost | you find | fluttering | superimposed | on forgotten heavens | while one | stranger | walks towards Kansas | through an army of Dorothys | heading for Oz

Ghost state | Echo on the line | Stroke the young stray | Pull back the curtain | let light in on the | magic | but when you sleep | the magic creeps back | the room | travels round the sun | when you wake | she is still there | and the shadows | move differently across her face, her eyes | so steady as she looks at you | her thoughts | long out of date | secret forever | fresh as your fear | and just | setting out | for love

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Hurt more | Hurry to where home should be | through the stones they throw at you | following your stench | an other odour in the snow | I | can’t be with you | too difficult for me | this is how | alienation goes | I hope it’s a valuable lesson | for both of us | Stay true | to the quirk they make of you | and safe for now | pause in an alley, run-down | a net of sparkle catches your bleeding eye | See, how the cobwebs work?

By phantom measures, the pain comes in | Where the children go, when they melt from our sight | our grasp | a place for neutral pineapples or old issues of Vogue | it’s an okay purgatory | not bad at all, really | a little | out-of-the-way, maybe, woozy, a bit lost | woods without riding hoods or wolves | a warehouse for mid-range goods | No thing to any man | that is a beggars’ lot | but why dwell on the fate of beggars? | Enjoy this largesse, my love | and lush nostalgia for the washed-out nineties | lying in a fever’s meadow | asters and parma violets | such hot bonds | for perfumed sugar on the breath | the sweetest hit | the tiny death | and in the rush | of songbirds and oxytocin | a desire to let in | a careless life | ending in | a squall of indifferent roads | so going | Hidden in our point of view | the wombs of various wars and shit | but how the spray | sparkles as it flies | see, through the firmament there! | You touched me right, too soon | Spilled, and went everywhere

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Holding the fort | of the summer | dice still rolling | breath of a new thought | stirring under your skin | Tremendous | ghosts | carrying elderberries and satin | the price | of gold | the cost | of living | Her letters | burnt in the fire | Her words | branching into the ashes and the | roots of them | asking of the sky | some slight portion of the | fear and the essence | of the sun | Scars so far are where | you did not die | and she | may remain in you | So many | birds in the forest | each with their | caption of shadow | of lime leaves, of | song, you cannot | possibly hope to | open | all the doors from your heart | A life of | fritter and chasm | ignorance and flopping plaster | Jesus’ face | cracked right through and | fissure right here | in the sparkling | light of these words | Old | poet | old | beggar | womb all | disconnected and | only others’ | babies crying keep you | awake at night now | A drop of salt | on the tongue | and then | laughingly | a view of the sea’s | grind and glitter | its voids | of rotation and the look | in the eyes of | drowned mariners | as they | sink away | Ships | in bottles and the | whistles | shrill as | toothache | Bust up and | mined out | pulled away by | hooks | under your blood and | in your hopes | Alone | Homeless | Dying | Mocked | and autumn | must defuse | the trees’ | explosive green | But wait | Breaking | can’t be | entirely broken | It’s not over yet | There’s still | a chance | Are you so | sure | after all? | How do you know, for certain, that you aren’t | one of the lucky ones?

Edging the ocean | Shivering after a swim in autumn | Pacific breakers | Towels wrapped around our shoulders | thinner then | Suffusion of | jewels, not | cold | not | accessible, not | acquirable, but | they make our hearts | wonder and spin | Tremendous | ghosts | bearing wounds and memories | Despite the | rage | of | pointless | conjugation | the verb is still | so green in us and the shoots | of summer still | tauten our time | under the sky | When you leave me | you don’t | leave me | When I lose you | I lose you | so deeply | it can only | end in return | or so | I feel || Into the great “meanwhile” | our days were thrown | They never | seemed to come | to nought | We kept busy | We held the fort

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Come home the song said | It was an old theme | but old in the way, each year, spring is old | despite the new departures of the blossom | Come home said the TV, and the walnut veneer and the freshly | oiled castors | but they weren’t in the song | and they didn’t possess | any of the song’s depth or sadness | Perhaps we should take a break I said | in a voice that was new, though in the way | annually the winter is new | still, it was probably the first time | I was really cold | What time | are you coming over? | you said | We are a history of discrepancy | the long | this is not that | I am not this | this is not me | we are not them | over and over the shuffled elements, hands | wafting through clouds of particles, chalk dust, cigarette smoke, a lover’s perfume | over and over | to arrive at the re-parsed set | the banks of the river | the place of rotting flowers | the mildly desperate game of status, the room by the lagoon | with its litter and stagnant water | the point of the series | the rank | I couldn’t feel | anything at all, not even | in the heart of the ice-melt | the snowdrop’s | chute | pistils of cherry or plum | you couldn’t feel | the nature of the wrong | I laughed, quietly, at the end | Come home | I said to the song

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Again the shadows | Wolves come loose from | fairystories | quicksilver | threads of saliva | drooling from their jaws, and | the amber furnaces of their eyes | (you can see | where men were thrown into | those eyes) || Not enough time | and nothing completed | Bailiffs | put your house in their pocket | you must make ready | for a colder day || It seems so long since you set out | for this moment | The mountains harnessed your awe | the rivers | haunted you with their flowing | Sheer numbers | confounded you | So many giants and so many strangers | and they all had | windows in their diaries | interesting ideas | on where to go from here, but they all…

Where now? | Abruptly | falling down a well of muscle and money | Bankrupts | desperate for a way out | stare at the sky, which | today | shuts its infinite doors on them | to one | blank | blue || It’s not that you’re irrelevant, but | your relevance is partial | just one | strand of fables in a tumult of them | how the days | are forged | how a pitcher of nectar | spilled into prayers | how the novel | was mislaid in a garden | Is every single train | in the world | leaving without you? | Is it so bad | to be forgotten? | Can’t you find freedom | in anonymity? | Such questions | keep you awake | at night | and the shadows | with their | nooses of emptiness | sway in the wind | as the wind | catches light, and burns | with the reflected flames | of amber furnaces

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Giving sunflowers to the moon | and the moon | to the rain || Like the pink taxi | the pine cones | rolled like elegant grenades | under the branches | like the trenchant | molecules of water | in the droplets | falling from a dock leaf | the sunset is only | the single instance of itself | and a little | powdered cadmium | you happen to mix in with it | and neither you | nor this dusk | will ever come again || Jamming the phone down on a cold caller | Never telling them ‘I love you’ | Train, stopped, broken down for | hours in a field | of sunflowers | bathed | in blue-white moonlight | and she asked Do you think it makes them dizzy?

Children spinning round and round | just for the possibilities | in a dervish mood | The alarm goes off, and it’s April | People take cover from their own hearts | those old | beasts | with their | scent of oil and dinosaurs || At war, there was the dawn patrol | The sea took their bodies and knew | no country || The taxi for the funeral was | rose pink | carried images of lips and lipsticks || Breaking and giving | like a promise || Caught on a broken-down train | well after midnight | out in the sticks | we waited for hours | surrounded by sunflowers | in the midsummer heat | and a perfect moonlight | They looked so still | and the moon, so full | Those kinds of memories | go round and round in your head | you half want to | throw them to forgetting || Later, we separated | and I never saw her again

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

ces livres sans intérêt | these boring books
— Rimbaud Enfance | Childhood

It is an old theme | and worse | an old intention | The paradigm is worn | the attitudes forced | it is like exhausting rehearsals for a play everyone knows will never be | performed | or having to wait for the airliner | to fall out of the sky once | the engines have failed and the tail | separated | Naturally, there is a familiar excuse | to resist the invitation | to the boring party | The wattled crones and blotched studs of vampiric | flowers | shoot themselves | into display | The revival, the renewal, the revolution | is same old same old, too | incontinent | flabby | senile youths | fuck up their lives in routine fashion | unable to master the toxic | awareness of their elders | Pages it is a weight | to turn | the self-destructive hussar in dolman, shako and pelisse | bears a ponderous general’s message | in precise detail | across the serene indifference of a stream | incising itself | bright and clear | into a busky corner of some princess’s land | fudges and mushrooms and falters | into specifics of an older theme | a more ancient | intention | and — more ancient still — a prehistoric | distraction | dice carved from predators’ bones | cards with jesters and slyboots on | or hanged criminals | possibly | innocent of a venerable crime, but nevertheless… | Paper boats | mush slowly on the lake, and the lake’s | calm omnivorous surface | reflects the clouds with their Zen | aloofness and the rootlessness | of passing planes | inflected on their journeys | the ennui | is palpable | the fever, the fervour, the flavour | studied and full of references | to famous maladies and malaises | to reinforce the value of their modus | operandi | their traditional decline | palls to the connoisseur | to the naive | gold-rushers in their teens or even in | their ideals | springs up once more to feed in | the sterile bees to Potsdam and to Bethlehem…

Dying is an old game, said Dino | Everyone’s into it | Living is the new x | Pulling on your boots for a long walk | once Bagratian has okayed it | Coming unexpectedly to the clearing | the dead children with their frock coats and gowns and garters and perukes and | ostrich feathers | and they had played everyone | as young aristocrats | turned to worship | the intimate | blade of the guillotine | Kick their heads and bump the mushrooms | and decide where to go | Are you coming, Dino?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Like a ship made of driftwood | dovetailed from the wrecks | of other vessels | A wrangled thing | caulked and finessed | It could be an idea | It could be a love | Motel room with a vibrant pink sign | something to do with rodeos? | Your mind | flushed with the powerful odour of bladder wrack or dulse | seaweeds entangled through the swaying | antlers of thoughts | a memory floating in a day | How a sapphire calls and how you leave it | behind | On the edges of a city | powdered with incidents and police lights | seeking to simplify your life | you wonder | how to eliminate extraneous things like | the way the moon happens to | shine, or | how to rid your darkness | of the ghost of a sapphire? | Watching out for a new beginning | The soft sound of blossoms falling on concrete paths | and the delicate electronica | of insects in the wide | Australian summer night | their desiccated | bleeps and whirs | Car thieves re-birthing | stolen Mercedes | All around you | the teeming congregation of disparate existences | inadvertently | building a patchwork cathedral | a cubist arrangement of oranges and exhausts / Chopin and ecstasy | Missing your ferry | Suddenly | wanting more life than you can bear | (it is | part of an arch) | For every exit an entrance | the fresh air | after the cinema | is a building, too | Eerie sound of buoys tolling | Shanties for moths and notations for electrons | Bonfires on the beach, echoes of old 70s riffs | The bus stop, an epic | Keep making it | patching new parts from | found wood and offcuts | It may not look like much | It may not be much | It could be better | It could be the rising price of butter | It could be a love

She sat back on the sofa in her red coat and red jeans | Who could have imagined her? | She’s building a ship made of driftwood | If you want more life, go to her | Although there isn’t time | to get to the end | she’s started a new play | And you won’t feature much, but maybe | for a moment | towards the back of the stage | you may be glimpsed in a captain’s uniform | and the glint of the rings of golden braid | blur into the shadow | your hands | in white gloves with a | dove-like flutter | raised towards her | dazzling from the sleeves of deepening sapphire

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

— January 1, 2015

So, to the other side | May I welcome you here? | What are the other sounds? | on the other side | of the other mirror? | All that stuff was yesteryear | no need to think of it | Hey, Champagne Boy! | Hey, Vodka Girl! | Yes, there is a pretty disco | I like the standard of glitter around now | Tireless horses in our bloodstreams | like the footsteps | of indigenous peoples | beginning to run | faster and faster | Hey! | Hey! | Hey! | I don’t care | for this version | may we hear | the original? | Hey, slender boy! | take off my clothes very slowly, fucking | appreciate these moments, how they | formed like pearls | Hoi, fat girl! | bite down on these pearls | spit them out | as you see fit | Okay! | It’s not paradise | never would be | never could be | no one | really knows that address | I like the way their | names slide over my skin | none of them | quite sticking | When the tongues come | marching in ranks like | Mao’s postmen | can you hear | the noise of tomorrow’s | revision | sliding into place? | This is a box | The idiots | stay in here | the romantics | get out | and those who were | so superior | and laugh at the very | idea of boxes | well, they won’t wish anyone | HAPPY NEW YEAR

So the horses begin | to run out of steam | Floating for so long, the fireworks | start falling | big time | We put on our dead suits | no sound of footsteps on these stairs | Lay claim | to the next few seconds | isn’t that | enough? | Weary from building walls | out of mirrors | we’ll lie down for a while | My daughters are running | faster towards the dawn | they’re calling | Come on! | but I just have | to let them go | can’t fit the new New World | into my schedule | Instead | I’ll slink away | into the old world | of sleep and 2015 | has anyone | made it back from there? | It’s not paradise, never would be | never could be | no one | really knows the address | Some think | it’s ahead | some think | we need to go back | As for me | I’ll stay here | let the years | rise and fall | around me | No one’s heard | about this place | Why don’t you | call my sons | call my daughters | and give them this number | tell them | This is where | a real love begins | ask them | to drop by | and while I’m waiting | for their answer | why don’t you | put down your things | take off your coat | turn off your phone | and keep me company?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)